


A New Suit

by ballpoint



Category: Marvel, Marvel 1610 - Fandom, Marvel Ultimates
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-05-11
Updated: 2011-05-11
Packaged: 2017-10-21 03:10:56
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,186
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/220259
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ballpoint/pseuds/ballpoint
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ultimates; Tony's trying very hard to be well-behaved and a model boyfriend to Steve. Steve is trying to work out how to tell Tony if he'd wanted a model boyfriend, he would never have hooked up with Tony.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A New Suit

**Author's Note:**

> Characters and trademarks belong to Marvel. No profit is being made off this fanwork.
> 
> Written for the cap_ironman comment blitz over on DW

As an Ultimate, and pretty much the sponsor of the team, Tony Stark had to be present at all the parties he planned and hosted.

Truth be told though, he loved them and the treats displayed; the pop of light, women with skirts riding high on their thighs, and necklines flirting with swells of breasts. With men, how they filled out in their suits. Both sexes, their eyes sly and knowing; mouths curved with unsaid invite.

 _God,_ Tony sighed, allowing the waitstaff to pass by laden with trays of assorted alcoholic beverages, as he picked his way around the crush of people towards the bar. _It's so hard being good_.

"Mr Stark?" the bartender greeted. The party was in full swing, and most people instead of being at the fully manned bar, they were on the dance floor, or in corners- or probably getting to know each other in more intimate ways in the rooms above. Well, that's what hotels were for.

"A virgin strawberry daiquiri, darling."

The bartender did a double take. "Mr Stark?"

"People keep telling me that parties are actually fun, _sober_ ,” Tony sighed, as he gave a half hearted wave. “You know what they say – if three people tell you that you’re drunk-“

“Keep drinking?”

Tony laughed, admiring the barkeep’s moxie. Also how she filled out the simple lines of her shirt, but because he was _trying to be good_ , he raised his eyes to her face, and kept them there.

“A woman after my own heart, but I’m giving the ‘lie down’ part a try.”

“One virgin strawberry daiquiri coming right up.”

Tony swivelled on the stool, eyes scanning the sea of faces, not realising the besotted smile on his face when he sighted Steve.

This wasn’t a party for the press, as much as say, for the workers at the Triskelion, and as such Steve wasn’t in his dress – blues? Whites? Greens? He never remembered, but he should, considering he and Steve were –together? A feat he hardly believed possible – not that he had been looking for possible, or Steve.

***

 

Like a good business match, they’d come together. After a bit of wrangling, and negotiation, push and pull, they ended up in bed.

Tony might have been drunk, but he remembered how they got there, with the hickey bites blooming on his skin to prove it. As well as the rubbery feeling in his legs, and the marks at his wrists – and Steve under him when he woke up that morning- the sun aiming its rays in between Tony's eyes like a kill shot.

“Now, this is a _good morning_.” Tony held up his hand across his face, before muttering, “Dim light.” The room suddenly plunged into semi darkness as if a cloud stole across the sun.

“Tony,” his name a sigh in sleep thickened notes, as Steve’s eyes drifted open.

“Can I get you anything- scotch, bourbon, _Jagermiester_ ?”

“No,” Steve’s hands drifted to Tony’s waist, as he shifted Tony off him to one side. “Don’t you eat breakfast?”

Tony’s mind went blank. What? Steve must have seen it, because he just gave one of those… vague waves and stalked towards the bathroom, all big, peach and gold and naked. Steve’s form – Michelangelo would have wept. Tony only drooled, transfixed until Steve closed the door behind him, with an audible click.

Tony shook his head, and reaching over to the night table, pressed a switch on his phone.

“Can you send up breakfast?”

“Sure, Mr Stark,” and that might have been Hilda, the chirpy blonde Swede. Lovely manner at night o’ clock, but at this time of day a bit full on. “What will it be?”

“Whatever people have for breakfast? Something they’d serve at a… _greasy spoon_?”

“Coming right up.”

***

 

Tony sipped at his drink, only to recoil and push it away. The textures and tastes so sharp, it made his eyes water.

“What’s wrong?” The voice at his ear – although he’d been out of ice for the past few years, at times, it still sounded as if he’d been beamed from those PSAs of the 1940s.

“My drink.” Tony indicated with a nod, as he passed it over. Steve didn’t take it, and Tony sighed.

“It won’t besmirch your honour holding a glass in your hand.”

“It looks-"

“Glasses are gender neutral, Steve.” Tony pressed.

“Hold the straw, then, and take off that garnish.”

Sighing, Tony did as told, and handed over the glass, only for Steve to sip at the drink. Made a puzzled face, before it gave way to pleasure, and he started drinking in earnest.

“This is pretty good. It’s like fruit juice, without the alcohol.”

“It is,” Tony sighed, absolutely heartbroken, his elbow resting on the counter. “Sans alcohol, sans life, sans every thing.”

Steve laid his hand on Tony’s shoulder. “Are you okay, Stark?”

“I am.”

“So… what’s this?”

“I hear that parties are actually fun when you’re _sober_. Fun, even.”

“Oh, so that’s why you haven’t been flirting with every skirt here?”

“Ah, you’re trying the ‘Level gaze’ on me, Steve? I’m not on the wrong side of the law-"

“Mostly.”

“It won’t work.”

“ _Tony_ ,” Steve’s voice all tones of exasperation now, as he sat on the stool beside Tony. Their knees touched, and normally Tony would have edged a bit closer, leaned over and whisper something scandalous in Steve’s ear. He didn’t, however, because as much as he and Steve had an understanding, there was still something exciting about having this- them- away from the tabloids and for oneself.

“Tony,” Steve repeated. “What are you- ?”

“We’re something now, and you’re Captain Rogers. You have a certain role to play, and I’m trying decorum- and it’s been quite so ill fitting.”

“Wait- you’re trying to say. That’s why you’ve been drinking orange juice, and generally acting like a nun?”

A _nun_? The thought electrified Tony with horror. He hadn’t been that bad, _had he_?

“Tony,” Steve leaned over, and nudged Tony’s arm with the back of his hand. “If I wanted someone else, I’d have looked for someone else. I don’t-“ and he broke off laughing, as if this were a surprise to him too, and Tony felt something in him thaw, soften.

“I like you, Tony.” Steve’s voice carried in his ear. “The fact that you find everything funny, and you’re generous enough to tell me _why_ ; everywhere you go, there’s a party, and everyone’s invited, and –“ Steve’s smile reached his eyes, warming them from their frigid Irish blue. “I need that. I need you."

“Alcohol?”

“Even nuns drink wine, Tony.”

“My wandering eye?”

“As long as you don’t touch, there isn’t any harm in looking.” At Tony’s raised eyebrow, Steve coloured, as he finished. “You taught me that. Besides, you’re not one to wear an ill fitted suit, Tony. I’m ashamed for you.”

“Well.” Tony let out a sharp breath. “There’s a suite upstairs I’ve been dying to try. Mirrors on the ceiling – risqué and eurotrash. If you want to help me out of my suit, figuratively _and_ literally-"

Steve grabbed his hand, and dragged him off the stool.

Fin.


End file.
